Small Steps
by strawberryfinn
Summary: When some of the Glee Club's own are caught in the crossfire of a school shooting at McKinley, each member's life is left in shambles. It will take all of their strength to recover. Warnings: character death, language, violence, depression, self-harm
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note**: So, here it is. My new attempted long story for _Glee, _a show I have fallen hopelessly in love with. I think that school shootings are always something that are so poignant and destructive in our society, and this is my attempt at trying to capture one. As I hope you know, I would hope that this would never happen (can you just imagine the distress?) and I'm by no means an expert on school shootings. I've been trying to do my research for this story, but any of your feedback or insight would be much appreciated.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the cast members or the characters of _Glee._

**Summary**: When some of the Glee Club's own are caught in the crossfire of a school shooting at McKinley, each member's life is left in shambles. It will take all of their strength to recover.

**Warnings**: Character death, language, violence, angst, self harm, depression

**Rating**: M (to be safe)

**Genre**: Hurt/Comfort/Angst/Friendship/Tragedy/Drama

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><p><strong>Small Steps<strong>

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><p>Noah Puckerman is not a man of many talents, but he is pretty damn good in the areas where he does have skill. One: he can sing. Sure, he used to think Glee Club was pretty gay and stupid and stuff, but hey, he can sing, and he's good at it, so why the hell not? At first he was concerned that it would give him a bad rep, but then he realized that the whole singing and guitar act was a total chick magnet. Two: he is a womanizer. This second skill is boosted by the first skill, but hey, let's admit it already, Puck could already get a woman undressed and in bed in record time before he realized he could sing. Probably his devastatingly good looks with his hazel eyes and the whole too-young-to-be-legal-but-totally-old-enough-to-be-into aspect helps. Three: he can always tell if it's going to be a bad day. It's kind of a weird skill, actually, but Puck realized that he had this ability when he was about twelve, and he's always been right ever since. Good days, he's not so great at discerning, but bad days, he's spot on.<p>

The driving force behind his intuition is generally in the first five minutes of his mornings. This particular morning, Puck wakes up to his door being slammed wide open. His mom literally _pulls _him out of bed, covers and all. He sits up, sputtering in a combination of horror and shock as his mom starts yelling—no, screeching like a banshee at the top of her lungs, waving her arms in frustration.

"Noah Puckerman! Get out of bed _right _now and get to school! You've woken up late again for the sixteenth time this month-" God, she's actually keeping _track? _"-and I am _not _going to have you be late again!"

Puck prides himself on being a badass. He gets a sense of satisfaction when he flips his middle finger at authority, he lives on the thrill of disobedience and delinquency. Telling Puck he can't do something—or is forbidden to do something—is a surefire way of ensuring that he does it. He prides himself on living outside the socially accepted norm, and getting laid while he's at it. The mohawk? Puck grew that because the first girl who dumped him (honestly, who would dump _him_?) said that she thought mohawks were absolutely disgusting and there was no way in hell anybody could ever rock that look. Well Puck proved her wrong, and the mohawk was a total chick magnet. Of course shaving it off was a bad idea—which he realized after the fact—but some hard work and major flirting helped him rebuild his bad-boy reputation and re-reach the tip of the ladies' man pyramid.

This just all goes to prove that Puck is a badass—it's an integral part of his identity and he wouldn't have it any other way.

But like all heroes (or rather delinquents in this case?), Puck has a weakness. And as stupid as this sounds, Puck's weakness is his mom. A prime example is the mohawk—shaving it off? his mom's idea. And dating Rachel Berry? his mom's request to date a Jewish girl. Yeah, Puck's Achilles heel is his mom. And right now, Puck's weakness is going all kinds of crazy in his bedroom as she screams at him to "get his ass in the car and go to school _now._"

Puck knows there's more to this story. His mom just doesn't fly off the rocker for no reason—though when she's mad, she gets _mad._ And he's right. His mom, in the middle of her hysterical rant, throws a letter at him. He's about to read it, but then she about summarizes it for him, screaming in his face.

"Your GPA is so low that they're threatening to put you on _academic probation_, Noah! That means they're going to kick you off of the football team and you're going to lose all chances of getting a college scholarship and doing something with your life!"

Oh, so this is what it's about. Puck tries to pretend that he's listening, but he tries to block out what his mom is saying. They've had this discussion so many times, and every time, he still gets that stab in his chest from the pain of disappointing his mom. His mom is an endless vat of insults—she is Puck's greatest critic (she trumps Santana and drunk Lauren combined), but she's his mom and he wants to make her proud, you know? And how on earth is he supposed to be a good son when he's barely passing his classes—he's gonna be stuck a Lima loser and he can't handle it.

"It's times like this I wish your father was here." His mother's voice is softening and Puck glances up briefly to study his mom's expression. She's sat down on the floor now. She's bordering on tears and grasping his blanket in her hands, and _God, _he would give anything now just to hear her just chastise and yell at him again, because he can at least block out that. "He'd know what to do with you, and he'd have done a better job than I've done."

Puck looks down at his hands, his brow furrowing in distress. It's _this_ that gets to him. The whole fact that Puck's mom thinks it's her fault that Puck is like this—the laundry list of crimes that includes nearly failing out of school, getting Quinn Fabray pregnant, sleeping around with women old enough to be his mother, getting suspended, bullying kids and throwing them in dumpsters (though he's stopped that), and to top it all off, juvie earlier in the school year. It's the fact that every time Puck digs himself into a hole, his mom thinks it's her fault for failing to be a good mother and because Puck lacks a good father figure. And then his mom goes on to be depressed about how she's a single mother and how Puck's deadbeat dad just took off and it makes Puck freaking uncomfortable to see his mom moping around and crying and watching _Life is Beautiful _while eating large amounts of chocolate.

_It's not your fault, Mom. I'm just lazy and I can start trying harder, _Puck wants to say, but instead he grumbles and claps his mom on his shoulder, and pulls on a pair of jeans and a sweater. He walks into the kitchen to grab a piece of toast, and sees his little sister Sophie staring at him, wide-eyed from where she's eating a bowl of cereal.

"You made Mom cry again," she says in a warning, serious voice that is way too old and mature for her eleven years of age, and Puck feels something cut through him. But instead of reacting or going into apologize to his mom, he scoffs, spreads some jam on his toast, and leaves the house to start the drive to school.

He breaks several traffic laws to get to school, and still manages to land himself in Mrs. Henderson's PreCalculus class late.

Yeah, this is gonna be a bad day, alright.

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><p>Lauren Zizes adjusts the thick framed glasses on her face as she stares at her reflection in the mirror on the inside of her locker. Her chipped, purple polish-colored nails drift down over a picture of her and Puck from Prom (yes, okay, Lauren Zizes <em>does <em>have a heart), and she can't help smiling. Sure, Puckerman is a man-whore and a complete player, and she will never understand what he sees in her (besides the fact that she can kick his ass _any day_), but who is she to question fate? What the hell, she'll just admit it already. She's_ crazy_ about Puck—crazy about his good lucks, charm, and wit. She's even crazy about that whipped puppy expression he gets whenever she orders him to do something, and she likes the fact that he'll do it (in spite of his complaints).

They have Glee today, which means he'll sit next to her during practice and stare at her with adoring hazel eyes. It means that she'll turn to him and say, "What the hell are you looking at?" in the meanest voice she can muster while in her head she's thinking, _I'm so happy you're looking at me; if you were looking at someone else I couldn't take it_, and he will look down apologetically with a, "Sorry, I'm not looking at anything," while he really is answering your reply, _It's okay. I like you too._

God, Puckerman has made her into a loaf of banana bread—so sentimental and fluffy and fruity and substanceless—but what the hell, she wouldn't have it any other way.

And now she's late for Spanish.

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><p>It seems like it takes a million years for third period to crawl by. The whole time in Mr. Schue's Spanish class, Mike Chang is squirming anxiously in his seat as Mr. Schue pauses on the <em>vosotros<em> conjugation form and after staring confusedly at it for several seconds with his brow furrowing up, declares that his students don't have to learn it. Mike tries to busy himself taking notes (because it's important for him to keep his grades up if he wants to go to a good college, he reminds himself dutifully), but his mind seems a million places at once, and his thoughts are fluttering around like a migration of butterflies.

Mike Chang doesn't say much, but his actions speak volumes. And as he drums his fingers nervously on the desk and taps his foot to a nonexistent beat, he flips open his planner again to page where "One Year Anniversary" is printed in big, bold Sharpie.

Yes, Mike knows that Tina is a pretty low maintenance girl (he wouldn't be able to handle high maintenance girls as somewhere amidst their demands and complaints, he loses his voice and his tongue feels massive and stuck to the roof of his mouth and he's reduced to a bunch of gangly limbs), but he can't help wanting to do something remarkable for her to let her know how special she is to him. He knows Tina doesn't expect anything—even a card would be fine—but he wants to do something unexpected and spontaneous—something that she deserves, and something that will make her think that he's the best boyfriend in the world.

Mike has never felt this way with any other girl. Granted, the girls he dated before Tina were mainly to bolster his reputation and establish himself as one of McKinley's esteemed jocks, but still, he was never attracted to them in the way he is to Tina. He had never found somebody that he enjoyed talking aimlessly on the phone to for hours upon end, and he had never found anyone else who understands and accepts everything about him. He had never had a girlfriend he was visibly excited to bring home with him to meet his parents, and he may or may not have beamed in pleasure when his parents told him that they approved. Tina does all of these things. She takes what he gives her—never asking for more or less, and that's why he needs to do something extraordinary.

This is why his backpack is stuffed with his mother's quilt (he prays that she won't notice it's missing until he gets home), and in his locker is a basket filled with a varied assortment of heart-shaped cookies (that he decorated himself, thank you very much) and flowers and tupperware containers bursting with other tasty—and non-Asian—meals (he may or may not have asked Kurt Hummel for cooking advice). Sure, Puck may accuse him of having grown a vagina, but Mike really doesn't care. So as Mr. Schue drones on and on, Mike flips open his wallet to look at his smiling picture of Tina, and hopes that everything goes as planned.

* * *

><p>Will Schuester is thinking that today could go one of two ways. The kids have Glee today, which means he's been bouncing off the walls with an unrestrained energy, trying to sort through the staggering number of ideas and concepts he's developed. But this idea—he really thinks he's hit a winner with this. Disney is good, right? Disney is ever changing, ever classic, ever original—everybody has at least one Disney song he or she likes.<p>

But even as he thinks it through, he runs through possible reactions.

"What the hell, Mr. Schue? You crazy? There is no way that a girl like me is going to sing a wholesome Disney song—I need some attitude," Mercedes will say, armed with her sass and confidence.

"Mr. Schuester, I think that Disney is doable but only a duet will fully showcase my exceptional talent." Rachel will immediately put her hand in the air but will start talking before he's called on her. "May I suggest that Finn and I perform a duet to 'A Whole New World?' I think that that particular song is both within Finn's vocal range—and as you assuredly know, nothing is outside of my own vocal range—but it also has a depth and rawness that will speak to my—_our_," she will correct herself as she looks enamoradly at Finn, "fans and profess our unrequieted love for one another in a way that is not too sappy but just refined enough."

"Mr. Schue... don't you think we can do something more rock and roll?" Finn will ask, in his _I-am-such-a-good-leader-listen-to-me_ voice, "I think the guys would really enjoy that." (To which most of the boys will agree with him—except maybe the exception of Kurt who will insist that they run through something from _A Chorus Line _or _Spring Awakening_ or "something with real, dramatic value" for once).

But Will wants the club to do Disney songs, because they are good, cleverly written songs with flowing, deep lyrics (and not at all because a certain Emma Pillsbury mentioned in a passing conversation that she loves Disney songs more than anything when she's looking for romance). And Will knows that no matter how much the kids complain and protest and tell him to get out of the 80's, his students will eventually listen. They're good kids like that.

"Emma!" Will says brightly, as he slides into the chair across from the red-haired woman who is cautiously unwrapping her peanut butter and jelly sandwich and taking out her container of grapes. He is happy to see that she's not wearing the crinkly plastic gloves—her medication and therapy must be helping—and focuses on her wide, doe-like eyes and long lashes.

"Hello Will," she says with that constantly startled expression she usually has, as she takes a bite of her sandwich. "How has your day been?"

"You are not going to believe what I'm having the kids do this week in Glee," Will says, as he starts taking out his own lunch. "I have the greatest idea-"

His voice is cut off as the sound of a gunshot fills the air.

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><p>Azimio knows that he's an asshole, but if it takes being a douchebag to stay at the top, then he'll be one. He's at the pinnacle of the food chain and with this position, he has been given a gift called power, and hell, he wants to (and will) use it. It's lunchtime, and he has a plastic cup filled with ice-cold slushie, and he's patrolling the hallways of McKinley (ever since Principal Figgins established school rules with greater emphasis on punishing bullies and the whole Bullywhips fiasco, Azimio has to be a bit more careful with where he rounds upon his prey). His sneakers squeak against the dirty linoleum floor, and he shrugs his letterman jacket further upon his broad shoulders, as his eyes zero in on a lone figure.<p>

The scrawny freshman girl in front of him is the Queen of Loserville. She has a tattered backpack in hand is unloading her books into her locker, puberty has not hit her as neither her ass or boobs have come in yet—and the reason why she's not in the cafeteria right now, he reasons, is because she has no friends to eat with. And as a football player and a jock at the top of the McKinley hierarchy, he is armed with a blue, raspberry slushie grenade, and he is going to use it.

"Hey, _loser_!" he yells, and when the girl turns and opens her mouth in shock (she has a set of hideous, mossy braces on top of everything—so she is _definitely _asking for it), he launches the cup at her face. The slushie cascades in a sticky, corn syrupy mess through her mousy brown hair, spills over her pimpled skin, and clings to the thick lenses of her wire-framed glasses.

The girl splutters at him in horror, her eyes fogging up her glasses, and she looks like she's about to cry. Her mouth flops open and closed like a goldfish, and Azimio is laughing, when all of the sudden a deafening noise fills the air.

A ringing muddles his sense of hearing, and it doesn't occur to him until his knees buckle to the floor and a burning pain fills his backside that he's been shot. His face is pressed against the dirty tile and he reaches his hand up to his backside. When he brings it back to look, his fingers are red, and the coppery scent of blood fills his nostrils.

"Oh God," he says, almost breathlessly, and his voice escalates as his panic builds. Above his hitched alarm, he hears the sound of the gun being cocked again. "Oh my God, I've been shot. I've been _shot_! Someone, please help me!"

A high-pitched, terrified scream crescendos over his pleas, and Azimio's voice catches in his throat, "Oh God, oh God, oh God-"

The sound of a second shot rings out, and his mind barely registers the body of the girl that he just slushied crumple down against the lockers and slide to a sickening halt. She is crying, whimpering softly, the remains of the slushie sliding from where it has crystallized in her hair, dripping blue down into her grungy, pink sweater. Her fingers tremble uselessly over the red seeping through the front side of her sweater. Azimio's screaming to himself, questioning why she's been shot if he's the one who is an asshole, helplessly sobbing in his mind as to why karma decided to rear its ugly head _now _and thinking oh my God he is really going to die today.

It's really almost a poetic justice when a third shot rings out and pain clouds his brain and the world is black.

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><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: I hope you enjoyed! I know it's kind of a weird mash up of light and dark, but I don't want to just write a tragic saga...

Also, I love reviews more than fresh chocolate chip cookies out of the oven. Please, if you could leave a review, it will really ensure that I update sooner. If I don't receive feedback, sometimes I just feel as though people are uninterested (the Story Alerts/Favorites are great, but reviews mean so much more).

Also... couples/pairings suggestions?


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note**: Hi everybody! So here is the second installment of _Small Steps_, which I hope you're enjoying so far. Thank you so much for the feedback! The reviews made me so happy :)

Umm, this chapter was a little hard to write. I know what I want to happen (thank you to JemDragon84 for all your help with ideas!) but it was a little hard to put into words. I think it might be because I'm so attached to all the characters, lol. Anyways, let me know what you think!

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the cast members or the characters of _Glee._

**Summary**: When some of the Glee Club's own are caught in the crossfire of a school shooting at McKinley, each member's life is left in shambles. It will take all of their strength to recover.

**Warnings**: Character death, language, violence, angst, self harm, depression

**Rating**: M (to be safe)

**Genre**: Hurt/Comfort/Angst/Friendship/Tragedy/Drama

(Favs: 9, Alerts: 29)

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><p><strong>Small Steps<strong>

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><p>Sam hears the noise when he's standing by his locker, grabbing his ticket for a free lunch. His mind barely processes it, but with a pang, he realizes it's a gunshot and <em>why is there a gunshot?<em> and that Oh-my-freaking-God there is a gunman in McKinley.

Two thoughts rush to his head: first that he is actually scared shitless (but who in his right mind _wouldn't_ be?) and second, he has to get _out _of runs through his options of staying hidden in a classroom, running toward his car, and getting the hell out of McKinley, or finding his friends, and he begins making a beeline toward the school courtyard.

It's then that he nearly stumbles over a limp figure in the hallway, and when he sees the blood pooling from underneath Azimio's body, it's all he can do to keep himself from vomiting. The bile rises in his throat and the panic rises in his chest, and he looks away from Azimio only to see a skinny girl coughing slightly against the locker. Her hands are clasped over her side, and she's whimpering softly.

"Hey, hey, calm down," he says breathlessly, as he holds the girl's shoulder up so that she doesn't crumple over into herself like a piece of flimsy origami. "Shhh, just breathe. My name is Sam. Can you tell me your name?" He diminishes his voice to a sweet, soothing tone, and flips back his white-blonde hair with one hand.

"J-J-Jessica," she shudders, stammering her words. Her hands press down harder onto her side, and he can see the blood seeping through the gaps in her fingers.

"Crap," he mutters, trying to slow his racing heart, which feels like it's about to punch a hole in his chest. He thinks vaguely back to when he was a Boy Scout and remembers something about applying pressure to wounds to stop bleeding. He shrugs off his letterman jacket, removes her hand from her side, and applies it against her stomach. "This is gonna sting, alright?" he warns, and lifts her hands to press down on her side. _God, why is there so much _blood?

Jessica is going limp in his arms, and he's trying hard not to panic—but his heart is slamming in his chest at the rate of a million miles and his jacket is seeping up blood so rapidly that he can feel it get physically heavier in his grasp, but the bleeding's not stopping. Jessica whimpers out quietly in pain, and it's all he can do to keep himself from breaking down completely.

"Shhh, Jessica," he stammers. He's not really good at this comforting stuff, but he needs to try. "Why don't you... tell me about yourself? Hey, hey," he soothes as she starts shivering, "I'll go first. I told you, I'm Sam. I play football, I have two younger siblings who I'm crazy about, and... I'm in Glee Club."

Jessica's voice is dreamy and sleepy-sounding. She closes her eyes, disoriented, and then reopens them. She replies in a thick voice, "I want to be a doctor. I w-was g-g-going to sign up for G-glee Club t-today." She coughs then, and it sounds thick and mucousy. "I-I've never k-kissed a boy." Her eyes close again.

"Well, um, hey," Sam says quietly, biting his lips softly. "That's okay."

He doesn't know what he's doing now, or if it's even okay because he's pretty sure that things are pretty damn far from being okay, but he leans forward and kisses her softly, his lips barely meeting hers. He pulls back, licking his lips slightly, his hand still grasping her shoulder. "Now you've been kissed."

Jessica gives him a thin, small smile, and she's about to respond, but suddenly, her eyes roll back in her head and her limbs are shaking. His limbs have frozen up and he's glued to the position where he is and Jessica is bleeding all over his sweater and he has no idea what to do. A large red bubble emerges from her mouth and bursts, and then her body stops moving and she's still in his arms.

"Jessica?" he doesn't make an effort to mask the horror in his voice anymore as his voice arches up an octave. He's doing everything right—he's stopping the bleeding, _why isn't it working? _He shakes her shoulder and her head lolls around limply. "Jessica, are you alright?"

But she's gone.

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><p>Tina thinks she must be the luckiest girl in the world. Most girls are lucky if their boyfriends remember their birthdays and maybe Valentine's day, let alone their anniversaries. And not only has Mike remembered their one-year anniversary (and the six-month and the one-month), but he's also laid out a quilt on concrete stairs of McKinley's lunch area and packed a lunch he claims he made himself (and though Tina has her doubts, she is <em>not <em>complaining).

"This is us," Mike says seriously, as he takes out two people-shaped cookies. One of the cookies is wearing a black dress and Tina laughs out loud as she takes in the blue streaks in the cookie girl's black hair and the painstakingly iced fishnets on her legs (yeah, there is no way Mike made these). The other is a smiling, shirtless boy cookie with iced on abs and blue pants. Both cookies have cheesy, dotted eyes and "u" shaped smiles on their faces.

Mike just looks so hopeful, so eager. "Do you like them?"

"I love them," Tina says, completely honestly.

Mike gives her a wide smile and eagerly leans in for a kiss. Tina delightfully complies. "I love you, Mike Chang."

Mike hums in agreement as their kiss intensifies. She feels his hand come up to clasp her cheek while his other hand grasps the small of her back as he pulls her up into his lap. Tina closes her eyes, getting lost in the familiar feeling of her boyfriend's grasp, and thinking about how in spite of the fact that she and Mike have been together for a year, there are still so many nuances and puzzles she has to unlock. She's amazed that she's never felt like this for anyone before—yes, there was Artie, but he pales in comparison to Mike and what she and Mike _have_. Tina loves that Mike respects her confidence and self-assuredness, but isn't whipped, so he'll call her out when she's doing something wrong. She loves that he is close to his family and wants her to generate a relationship with his mother. She loves that he wants her to get to know his family because he wants her to feel accepted (especially once they get married, he has noted, and she's thrilled that he's begun thinking that far ahead and the thought of—_oh my God_, he actually wants to marry her!)

Tina Cohen-Chang is hopelessly in love with a certain Mike Chang and luckily for her, he is just as smitten.

She pauses long enough to ask him, "What did you make for lunch?"

Mike reluctantly breaks the kiss, but he eagerly begins fishing out a plastic container full of Caesar salad, foil-wrapped chicken paninis, a thermos of soup, and a small bottle of lemonade.

"God, I love you," Tina smirks, and she stands up, pulling Mike with her. Mike moves into kiss her again when—

"Well isn't this cute?" comes a slow, cold drawl, and Tina looks up, her mouth opening slightly in shock and fear. A tall masked figure—most likely male—stands in front of them, his gun cocked. Around them, students are screaming and running towards the school, but Mike and Tina are held at gunpoint and both of them are too terrified to move.

"The token Asian couple," the guy spits out venomously, and Tina feels her heart clench with fear. She interweaves her fingers more tightly into Mike's, and she feels him squeeze her hand back, and her heart is beating faster than she ever thought possible. "Aren't you two just _precious?_"

The next voice is Mike's and Tina tenses as he speaks. His voice is firm and full of resolve, but she can detect the tremor in it. "Please... we haven't done anything to you. Just let us go. You don't have to do this. Don't do anything you'll regret."

"Oh, I won't regret this," the shooter says, his voice still calm and collected. He points the gun at Tina's face, Mike yells, "_Tina_!" and Tina closes her eyes and screams and the cracking sound of a gunshot fills the air—

The pain she's expecting doesn't come. There is no blinding agony filling her body, her tears are not immediately welling up in her eyes due to the impact of a bullet. Her ears are ringing from the cracking sound of the gunshot, but there's no rush of heat and she doesn't feel blood seeping and the cartridge pierce her skin—

Tina opens her eyes. Mike is on the concrete in front of her, his hands clutching his chest, his face contorted in agony, his teeth gritted. Blood runs through his fingers and his eyes are closed as he yells silent, tormented screams.

"Mike!" Tina's mind explodes with panic, and she watches numbly as the shooter empties two more shots: one into Mike's leg and one into his stomach. Mike is yelping in pain now, his body writhing and flailing, and Tina gets down on the ground next to her boyfriend—_her_ boyfriend, the selfless, sweet boy who stepped in front of a gun and took _her _bullet—and she's not thinking straight, her mind is whirling, and two more shots ring out and—

The pain meant for her comes in an overwhelming wave, crashing down on her. Her limbs jerk and her head falls back and all is black.

The decorated Mike and Tina cookies lie on the concrete, shattered into pieces.

* * *

><p>Kurt and Mercedes are sitting at a table inside the cafeteria when they hear the screams. A freshman Cheerio barges in through the cafeteria doors and clambers frantically under their table. Kurt is trying to stomach the shock and he hears the girl quietly whimpering from where she is pulling chairs to form a barricade and hide herself.<p>

"What is going on?" Mercedes demands loudly. She puts down her sandwich and pushes the chairs out and crawls under the table, Kurt following her lead. "Girl, you better tell me-"

"Shut _up!" _the cheerleader whispers frantically. Her blue eyes are wide with fear and her eye make-up is smeared and her blonde hair is haphazardly coming out of her ponytail. "He'll _hear _us! You're gonna get us all killed if you don't _shut up!_"

"Who will?" Kurt questions, throwing a warning look at Mercedes who looks like she's going to pound the freshman for telling her to shut up. "Please, what's going on?"

"There's a guy," the Cheerio says. Her shoulders are shaking and she cups her hands over her mouth in horror. She breathes heavily and pauses, pulling her hands down as she tries to regain some control. "He's shooting—everyone! I-I was outside and I j-just ran and I didn't—God," her voice chokes and tears spike her eyes, "he s-shot those two—your friends I think—the two Asians-"

"What?" Mercedes nearly screams, and Kurt claps a hand over her mouth. "_Mercedes!"_

"They were just sitting there." The girl is teetering on the edge of insanity. "They had these—these _containers _of food and it was a picnic and-" she's babbling, and Kurt is feeling like he got punched in the stomach. He helped Mike prepare that meal for Tina's anniversary and—_oh my God, oh my God, oh my God—_how is this happening?

Mercedes is suddenly in shambles next to him. She grabs the Cheerio's shoulders and shakes her, shock and disbelief bouncing off every one of her features. "You're lying—you're not serious." Mercedes is gritting her teeth in horror as she shakes the Cheerio, and Kurt is just imagining Mike and Tina—sweet, gentle Tina and kind, silent Mike who stood up for Kurt when he was being bullied by Karofsky—lying in their own blood.

"W-why would I lie about this?" the cheerleader asks, distress dominating her face, and Mercedes lets go of her and chokes back small, sharp sobs.

Kurt closes his eyes and feels his phone vibrate in the pockets of his trousers. _Blaine._

His fingers almost numb, he reaches for his phone, and can't make his fingers grasp it. It takes him a few tries but he finally fishes it out, and sees a text from his boyfriend.

**From: Blaine Anderson**

**12:03 P.M.**

**Hi sweetheart, how's your day? I'm going to swing by your house today—that okay?**

And Kurt fumbles with his keypad, his fingers refusing to obey his brain's commands, a million thoughts rushing in his head—there's a shooter at McKinley, he might _die _today, Mike and Tina—oh God, Mike and Tina...

His fingers slip again and the phone skids out of his grasp. The Cheerio picks it up.

Kurt yells at his mouth to open so he can speak, and he eventually gets control of himself. "You need to call 911 and tell them there's an emergency," he finally manages to say, trying to keep his voice from shaking. The cheerleader nods and Kurt gives her a silent, thankful nod.

And that's when the cafeteria door breaks open and Kurt is deafened by the sound of a gun being fired.

* * *

><p>"Oh my God!" Emma yelps, her terrified eyes huge in her head. Her voice lowers to a whisper, as if she's afraid somebody will hear her. "Will, what was that?"<p>

"Emma," Will orders calmly, trying to control his racing pulse. "Get on the floor."

"Will, I can't do that," Emma says, her expression growing more horrified. "Do you know how many germs the ground has? There's so many-"

Another shot rings out and Will visibly flinches. The other teachers in the teacher's lounge are jumping up in shock. Emma watches as Coach Beiste immediately leaves for the teacher's lounge, saying something about making sure the kids are safe, and Sue Sylvester of all people, hot on her heels.

"Emma, please," Will repeats, trying to keep his voice even. His voice is shaking and he looks like he's about to cry. "I need to know that at least you're safe. Just stay here and don't move."

Emma complies. She gets down onto the cold tile the teacher's lounge, the floor that is scuffed with dark shoe marks and stained from spilled coffee, and visibly shudders as she lies down, her cheek placed down flat and meeting the linoleum surface. Will's hand drifts over hers softly, she feels the slight brush of his lips on her forehead, and then, with soft footsteps, he's gone as well.

* * *

><p>Mercedes is pretty sure that God has abandoned her. Maybe God isn't surveying the small speck on his universe that is Lima, and He cares even less about McKinley. Yet, she's closing her eyes and praying in her head to herself. <em>Please God, let me get out of this alive. Please let us be okay. Please let my friends be okay—let Mike and Tina be alive.<em>

And she says this as she hears the click of the gun and the terrified cries from other parts of the cafeteria where several students have hidden under the tables. She hears the quiet _drip-drip_ from someone's knocked over milk carton, and she closes her eyes. The Cheerio next to her starts to let out a whimper, but Mercedes claps a hand over her mouth and gestures for the girl to be quiet.

Kurt pushes his hand into Mercedes's and gives hers a quick squeeze. She shoots him a look of gratitude, which he returns with a thin smile.

It's almost deathly silent, but Mercedes knows the shooter is walking around the lunch area.

Another shot rings out and the silence is shattered by the broken sobs of a boy, but Mercedes, Kurt, and the girl sit in silence.

That is, at least, until they hear the squeaking of the chairs being moved from their fortress. Mercedes's can hear the Cheerio's teeth chattering in terror and she's shaking too. Kurt, however, seems completely numb as he watches in horrified fixation as the chairs are pushed out of the way, exposing him. Mercedes and the Cheerio move toward the other end of the table and silently splay themselves flat on the ground.

The head of a gun meets Kurt's chest.

Kurt blinks, gulping, his face is ashen white and his eyes flicker with fear, but his lips purse and Kurt says, "You don't have to do this."

Mercedes wants to scream. She wants to know where the police are; she wants to go home; she wants to go to Glee and have this be a normal day. She wants to stand up and yell at her best friend; she wants to tell him, _It's not the time to be a damn martyr Kurt, now stop trying to reason with the crazy guy; stop being stupid_, but she can't do anything so she is quiet and she watches. It's like when she watched _The Ring _with Sam—she wanted to look away so much but she couldn't, and she can't stop looking right now. Mercedes hates horror flicks, but she would take any of them over this real-life nightmare—her best friend right next to her, vulnerable, being a fucking martyr.

There is Kurt's voice, shaky but strong.

"You may feel alone, but you're not alone. _Don't _do this."

"You don't know the first thing about anything, Kurt Hummel," comes a cool, calculated reply. "You and your perfect boyfriend and your fucking Glee Club." Then, an ear-splitting explosion.

Mercedes is lying flat on the floor, her ears ringing from the impact, specks of blood—oh God, oh God, it's _Kurt's _blood—the coppery smell overwhelming her senses. She sees limp legs swathed in trousers and Kurt's hair, and Kurt's body—so _still._ The Cheerio next to Mercedes who she doesn't even know is breathing hard and crying silent tears, holding onto Mercedes's for dear life, and all Mercedes can focus on is staying quiet and wondering if she's next and _Please God._

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: Please review! Any suggestions? I got a LOT of suggestions for Finchel and Quick but those are the main ones so far. Eeeeep! Who do you guys think should die and who should make it? Please click "Review this story"-it would mean a lot to me. And if anybody would like to see my other Glee fics-try _When Puck Met Rachel _and _Courage_. :)


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